


When Harry Met Edward

by Beefmaster



Series: Into The Harryverse [4]
Category: Original Work
Genre: 1950s, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:41:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27388894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beefmaster/pseuds/Beefmaster
Summary: In October 1952, Harry Newell and Edward Button meet in a third-tier London gallery. The rest is history.
Relationships: Harry Newell/Edward Button, Sholto Pymm/Charles "Whitey" Whitehurst
Series: Into The Harryverse [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1921519
Comments: 13
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok don't freak out you guys: there are no annotations on this fic! I'm so sorry! They're just a shit ton of work and also there wasn't much to annotate this time!
> 
> This fic is intended to be a stand-alone, even if you've never read my other Harry/Edward stuff it will make sense, although you might not get all the references. 
> 
> I would also like to say upfront that I reserve the write to edit what I have posted if I need to later on. If I change anything I will let y'all know in later chapters.
> 
> Thanks to highinfibre and OdioEtAmo for reading this over and helping me out and also just loving these men.
> 
> Thanks especially to OdioEtAmo for inventing Harold and Fred, and for knowing how the art world works. I do not.

“It was wonderful to meet you, Mr. Newell,” Collins says, “I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of you in the future.”

“I certainly hope so,” I say politely, as I shake his hand. Collins (owner of some gallery I’ve forgotten the name of in a neighborhood I’ve never heard of, first name unknown) is the last person at this private view I’ve been told I “simply _must_ ” speak to. As Collins wanders away, I pull out a cigarette and light it. Smoking is against the rules of this gallery (something about preserving the “atmosphere” of the place) but I really need a smoke, and if anyone asks, I can say I didn’t know.

I lean against the wall and survey the crowd. The whole evening has been overwhelming. Patty and Cheryl, two of the other painting teachers at the community center, had said they wanted to come, but they already had tickets to some show called _The Mousetrap_ , and they’d had them for ages. So I’m stuck here alone, shaking hands with art critics and gallery owners and anyone else Rose Weatherly tells me I need to impress. Rose is friends with the owner of this particular gallery, and she’s decided that I’m her protégé of sorts. Really, I shouldn’t be shown in a gallery of this magnitude; I'm a nobody. But Rose’s friend wanted to put together a show of “fresh new faces,” and I’m nothing if not fresh, so Rose recommended me.

I don’t mean to sound ungrateful for Rose’s help. I swear I’m not, I’d be nowhere without her. I met her about a year ago when I first moved to London. She’s got the studio next to mine. I really couldn’t afford that studio space on my own, to be honest, and about three months in I was about to give it up and go back to painting in my room, but when Rose heard about it, she offered to pay for a month until I found a second job to help cover the expense. Rose isn’t really a painter herself; I mean, she dabbles, but she isn’t exactly _good_. I’m not being mean, Rose will be the first to tell you that. But she likes being in the studio because it “inspires” her. You may have already figured this out, but Rose Weatherly is a widow in her 60s with more dollars than sense, as my mother would say. She thinks of herself as a patron, but as far as I can tell, I’m the first one she’s ever patronized. 

I suppose now that I’ve explained Rose, I should take a moment to explain who I am, exactly. I should have explained earlier, I know, but I have often been told I have a round-about way of telling stories. My name is Harry Newell, I’m 29 years old, and I grew up in Napa, California, but now I live in London for reasons I don’t feel like getting into right now. I’m a painter, which explains why I’m currently at this dreadful gallery opening where they have cheap wine but Rose said I’m not allowed to have any because I have to keep my wits about me. 

I decide to occupy myself with people watching, but there isn’t really much to watch. Most of the people here seem to be on dates, but there’s a group of three women in nurses uniforms in one corner, and a few other artists being shown here who are still doing their required mingling. Basically, everybody’s just standing around talking, and not about anything particularly interesting.

I’m seriously considering hiding in the bathroom when I hear the door open and turn my head to watch a new couple walk in. She’s alright looking; her eyes are too small but she’s got nice eyebrows and very neat hair. The man on the other hand, well.

That’s the other thing I should probably tell you about myself. I’m a homosexual. A queer, a flit, whatever you want to call it, that’s me. I like men. I like their company and I like looking at them and I’ve only kissed a handful of them but I very much enjoy that too. So when I say that this man was a looker, you can trust my judgement. He’s got wavy, dark blond hair and big blue eyes and high cheekbones and the sort of full lips that makes my own mouth sort of dry. It’s the sort of face where if I saw him in a Brylcreem ad in a magazine I’d tear out the picture and tack it on my bedroom wall and kiss it every morning. Not that I’ve ever done that, but if the men in the Brylcreem ads were this good looking, I might.

The couple wander over to the first painting on their right, which happens to be mine. I can feel my heart racing. I’ve never wanted somebody to like my work more than I want this man to. The woman he’s with says something to him, and he nods. She leaves him and walks over to the group of nurses, who greet her cheerily. The man looks around the gallery, and when his eyes land on me, he smirks. I almost drop my cigarette I’m so shocked. He walks over to me casually, hands in his pockets.

“You know those things will kill you, right?” he says.

I feel as if I’ve woken up from a wonderful dream, but not a peaceful sort of wakeup. Rather, I feel as if I were sleeping and somebody grabbed me by the shoulders and started shaking me until I couldn’t even remember what I was dreaming about.

“Excuse me?” I say. Who exactly does this man think he is? 

“Your cigarettes. They’re full of tar and all sorts of other nasty stuff. It’s a horrible habit.”

“I think you’ll find that smoking is actually good for you, _doctor_ ,” I say nastily. “It clears the lungs.”

“I actually am a doctor,” the man says, “and you’re wrong. Besides, it’s against the rules of the gallery.”

Of course he’s a doctor. I should have guessed this man, with his perfect hair and his smirk and his accent that even _I_ can tell is posh, would be a _doctor_.

“Alright then,” say, “so you’re not just a square, you’re a professional square. What are you doing at an art gallery, did you get lost on your way to a sock hop?”

“The man’s smirk turns to a frown. Clearly my insult landed, and now I feel a bit bad about it. “Believe it or not, doctors are allowed to know about _art._ It just so happens that I’ve heard one of the artists being shown here is supposed to be the next big thing. His name’s Harry Newell, but you’ve probably never heard of him.” He looks so satisfied with himself that I can’t help but smile.

“I actually have heard of him. In fact, I am Harry Newell.” The man’s face falls. Once again, I feel sort of bad. I mean, I didn’t intend to embarrass him or anything, I _am_ Harry Newell, but clearly I did. And I hate to punish anyone who appeals to my vanity, as misguided as they might be. “Would you like to smoke with me outside? Or are you too square to smoke at all?”

The man smiles. “Alright. My name’s Edward, by the way. Edward Button. _Doctor_ Edward Button.”

I laugh. “Alright, _Doctor_ Button. Let’s go.”

He leads me outside and around a corner, where he takes a cigarette case out of his breast pocket.

“I thought those things would kill you?” I tease.

Edward shrugs. “I’m not sure life would be worth living if I couldn’t smoke at all.” He places a cigarette between those beautiful lips and lights it. “So what’s your story, Harry? How did you become the next big thing in the art world?”

“I’m not, really. But my friend Rose got me into this showcase, so maybe now I will be.” 

“Rose Weatherly?”

“You know her?”

“Not exactly. Connie, who I came here with, is her niece. Rose got us all on the list. She raved about you.”

“Rose has always been my biggest fan.” I bite my lip. I’m not entirely sure how to ask Edward what I want so desperately to ask him. “Connie, is she your steady?”

He snorts. It’s bizarrely charming. “My steady? You make me sound like I’m 16.” 

“Alright, fine. What would you call her?”

“My friend. We work together. We live near each other, so I picked her up. I’m not dating anyone right now.” He smirks again.

I nod. That’s a good sign, then. It doesn’t mean he likes men, and it certainly doesn’t mean he likes me, but at least he’s single.

“I came all this way to see your paintings, I feel bad I’m not seeing them,” Edward says. 

“You did see it, actually. The painting you looked at when you came in. I’ve got a couple more in there, but that’s the best one.”

“Really? I quite liked it. The colors are really something. This might be silly to say, but it made me feel rather small.”

I’m not sure what to say. Normally, I hate talking about my art with non-artists. Even artists sometimes will drive me crazy. They don’t quite dig it, they get frustrated when they just see lines and vague shapes. But Edward seemed to get it. “Yes, that’s- that’s exactly what I was going for. I was thinking about vastness, and our place in the universe.”

Edward nods. “I think about that sometimes too. It used to make me feel unimportant, but lately I think that maybe it’s a good thing, that maybe if we were bigger, and the universe were smaller, we’d feel a lot more lonely.” Edward shakes his head. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

I laugh. “It doesn’t really, but I like that you said it.”

“So what do you do when you aren’t painting?”

“Work, mostly. I teach painting at a community center, and I work at this bookstore, Burley-Mann Booksellers.” I study his face carefully. Burley-Mann’s got a certain reputation amongst a certain subset of London, if you catch my drift. If Edward’s heard of it, it’s a good sign.

“Do you like books?” he asks. If he’s heard of Burley-Mann, it doesn’t show.

“I love them. That’s the other thing I do when I’m not painting, I read.” I lean back, stretching my neck. I catch Edward staring at my throat, which is definitely a good sign. 

“I’ve never been much of a reader, personally. I don’t have the attention span for it.”

“It’s not for everyone. What about you? What do you do when you’re not doctoring?”

“Nothing very interesting. I listen to records, go to the movies, drink with friends. The usual sort of thing. Oh, I play piano.”

I smile. God, I’d love to see those beautiful fingers on a piano. “You’re a musician?”

“Hardly. I’m not very good. I could never master the really hard stuff, mostly I just play Irving Berlin, Cole Porter, that sort of thing.”

“I like Cole Porter.”

Edward smiles broadly. “He’s my absolute favorite.”

The two of us talk for nearly an hour. At one point, he offers me one of his cigarettes (“I can see what you’re smoking, it’s going to kill you even faster than I thought”) and lights it for me. It’s strangely intimate, the sort of thing a handsome man might do for a beautiful woman in the movies. I hope desperately that Edward thinks I’m beautiful. 

Eventually, Edward’s friend Connie comes to find us. 

“There you are, Edward!” she says. “I’m about ready to go, do you mind driving me home?” 

“Not at all,” Edward says, stubbing out his cigarette. “Harry, this is my friend Connie Franklin. Connie, this is Harry Newell.”

“Oh, you’re Harry Newell! I saw your painting. It was very, um. It was very bold.”

I smile tightly. “Thank you, Connie.”

“It was lovely to meet you, Harry,” Edward says. He shakes my hand. His palm is cold, but soft. “Best of luck with your art.”

“It was lovely to meet you as well,” I say. 

“Good-bye, Harry!” Connie says. They walk down the street, away from me. Edward briefly looks back over his shoulder at me. I smile and wave at him. He smiles back, then turns forward again. The two of them turn a corner, and then they’re gone.

***

I should start by introducing myself. My name is Dr. Edward Button, and I live in London. Technically, I’m the Honourable Edward Button, because my father was a baron, but I prefer Doctor, because I worked very hard to earn that title, and since I was born "honourable," as it were, the hard work was mainly my mother’s. I suppose my father did a bit of hard work as well, early on in the process, but I don’t really like thinking about that bit. Besides, we don’t really go in for all of that Lord and Lady and Honourable nonsense anymore. Well, my brother Clarence does, but that’s because he’s a baron now, and also a bit of a prick. 

But I don’t really want to tell you about me, I want to tell you about Harry. _Harry._ Harry Newell. All I can think about is Harry. Apparently, he’s all that I talk about as well.

“Did I mention he’s American?” I say to Whitey. Whitey’s real name is Charles Whitehurst, but I’ve known him since Cambridge and we all call him Whitey. He and I are out to lunch together.

“Yes, you did. Several times. He’s also the most wonderful person you’ve ever met and he’s teaching himself how to cook and he had blue paint under his left thumbnail and you’re desperate to meet him again.” 

“It was green paint, thank you very much.”

“So what? Does he like you? Is he even our sort?”

“Oh, I’m sure he is. Really handsome men almost always are.”

“That's not been my experience, but I’m sure they all make an exception for you.” Whitey pokes miserably at his food. Whitey’s always been a bit touchy when it comes to my sex life, probably because he and I were something of an item for a year or so back in school. I should have mentioned it before, but my circle of friends is composed almost entirely of men I’ve slept with, so it’s hardly unusual. I wouldn’t recommend having your social circle be thus composed, unless you want to have this sort of uncomfortable interaction every time you talk about your latest beau.

“Alright, Whitey, fine, if it’s making you this moody, we’ll talk about something else. How is work? Have you traded any good stocks lately?”

The conversation moves on, but I don’t stop thinking about Harry. I have to see him again, but I’m not sure how. I didn’t think to ask for his number, which in retrospect was very foolish. Given how much of my youth was spent “fraternizing,” if you will (and I myself was very willing), you might be surprised to learn that I am not very good at the logistics of these sorts of dalliances. My love strategy has always been to be very beautiful and very charming in a public place, and then, when it is overwhelmingly obvious that a man is interested in me, I make my move. Unfortunately, I had sort of biffed the whole thing with Harry. I had started our interaction with a line that I thought was flirtatious, but he clearly found insulting. His opinion of me only improved from there, and we ended up having a very pleasant evening, but I had missed that part right at the beginning, that crucial moment where I see in a man’s eyes whether he’s interested in conversation or interested in me. I was too nervous that I had got it wrong, that Harry was simply being friendly, and I couldn’t bring myself to ask to see him again.

But I want to see him again. So I have to track him down. My first thought is to ask Connie to ask her Aunt Rose about him, but Connie would ask why I want to see him again, and I like to keep my professional life and my personal life separate when I can. I could call the operator and try to track down his number, but it might spook him if I call him out of the blue. The best way to find him would be to arrange an “accidental” meeting. I know Harry teaches painting, but I have no idea where. He also mentioned he worked at a bookstore, Burley-Mann, which might be a better bet. It’s generally not a good idea to show up at people’s place of business unannounced, but a bookstore’s different, you’re supposed to show up unannounced. That’s how they sell books.

So Burley-Mann it is. I’ve heard of Burley-Mann booksellers before. Several friends and acquaintances have recommended it to me, but I can’t for the life of me understand why; I’ve never been much of a reader. 

“Do you know where Burley-Mann is?” I ask, interrupting Whitey. Somehow, twenty minutes later, he’s still talking about _stocks._ I hate to say it, but I think our relationship was better when we were having sex.

“The bookstore? Of course. It’s near Charing Cross. I’ve got the address written down somewhere, I can give you a ring with it later. Why?”

“Oh, Fred was telling me about it. I’m looking for a book, I thought I might give it a try.”

“What book?” Whitey asks skeptically. I _could_ tell him the truth, but I suspect he wouldn’t like to hear it.

“Oh, I’m not sure. I’m just looking for something to read. Do you have any recommendations?” I much rather hear Whitey talk about books than stocks. As hoped, Whitey launches into a review of the latest Agatha Christie, and this time I listen to him.

As promised, Whitey gives me a call later that evening with the address, and it is that address, written on a scrap of notebook paper, that I clutch in my hand as I walk into the bookshop. The shop itself is larger than I expected, with the sort of overcrowded, cozy feel that so many bookshops seem to strive for. I look around, but I don’t see Harry. I immediately realize the flaw in my plan: what if Harry isn’t working today? Surely he has days off. And if I keep coming back, hoping to see him, won’t that look suspicious? I hadn’t even considered it.

“Can I help you?” a man asks. He’s standing behind the cash register. I consider waving him off, but the truth of the matter is, I do need assistance, and this man looks friendly. He’s an older man, with a cane and small, oval-shaped glasses.

“Yes,” I say, as I approach the cash register. “I’m looking for Harry?”

“That’s me, I’m Harry.” the man says. He sounds like he wishes he weren’t Harry, so that I might leave him alone. “What can I do for you?”

“Oh, sorry, I’m looking for a different Harry then. Young, tall, good looking?” I wince internally. I probably shouldn’t have added that last bit.

“And that doesn’t describe me?” the man asks earnestly. 

“Oh, uh, well-“

“I know who you mean. He’s here today. Why do you need him?”

Once again, I haven’t thought of that. There seem to be an awful lot of things I haven’t thought about, but in my defense, I’ve mostly been thinking about Harry.

“His hat!” I blurt out. “He left his hat. I wanted to return it, but all I knew about him was that he worked here.”

(The older, shorter, less handsome) Harry narrows his eyes. “I don’t see a hat.”

“Ah, yes, well, I left it at home. Very silly of me. But I was hoping to find him to arrange a time to meet and return it.”

He seems to accept that answer. He doesn’t seem to believe it, exactly, but he accepts it. 

“Harry should be downstairs in the basement. I’ll go fetch him.”

“No!” I say quickly. If I’ve misread this situation, then it will look awfully shabby if Harry knows I came looking for him. “There’s no need. I’ll go find him.”

“Suit yourself.”

At the bottom of the stairs, I find Harry shelving books. He is, fortunately, just as handsome as I remember him.

“Harry!” I say, feigning surprise. Harry turns to me and smiles broadly.

“Edward! What are you doing here?” 

“Oh, just looking for a book. I forgot you worked here.” I walk over to him casually.

“I thought you weren’t much of a reader.” 

“I read _sometimes._ I’m not illiterate.”

“Okay. What are you looking for?”

“You’re the professional, you tell me. What do you recommend?”

“Follow me.” Harry leads me to a quieter section deeper into the basement. “Take a look, I think you might like something back here.”

“Alright.” I run my fingers along the spines as I scan the shelves. As I’ve said, I’m not much of a reader, but even I can tell that the books here seem to be arranged at random: _Orlando_ next to _The Translated Works of Federico García Lorca_ next to _Billy Budd_ next to _The Iliad_. I suppose it’s all part of the store’s Bohemian feel, but I’m not sure why Harry would think I’d like something in this section in particular.

“What sort of thing do you read? When you do read, that is.” Harry stands behind me, a few inches closer than is entirely appropriate for a shop employee.

“Detective novels, mostly. Some spy novels. That sort of thing.”

“Nothing too strenuous, I see.”

“I have a strenuous job, Harry. I like to _relax_ at the end of the day.”

“Alright, let’s see if I can’t find you something _relaxing._ Wait here.”

As Harry leaves, I wonder why Harry brought me to this section if he wasn’t going to choose a book in it. I turn back to the books in front of me. They still make no sense. _Brideshead Revisited, The Children’s Hour, The Picture of Dorian Gray_ \- oh. _Oh._ Suddenly I understand how all the books are related, which helps explain why all my friends rave about this place, and hopefully, hopefully, explains why Harry brought me to this section. 

“I think you might like some of these,” Harry says as he returns with an armful of books. “Oh, did you already find something?” He nods at the copy of _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ in my hands.

“Maybe. I do like Oscar Wilde.” I grin at Harry.

“Oh.” He stops very suddenly, then carefully, he says, “he certainly has a way with words.”

I feel as if I’ve said something wrong. Even if Harry isn’t like me, surely normal men are allowed to like Oscar Wilde? I don’t know. I don’t know the rules of “normal” men. I’m about to backtrack, qualify my statement somehow, when Harry continues.

“I like him too. What have you read by him?”

“Not much. We did _The_ _Importance of Being Earnest_ in school. I was Gwendolen.”

“Really?” Harry’s smile reaches all the way to his eyes.

“It was an all boys school, there wasn’t much choice.”

“Well, I’m sure you were wonderful.”

“I was. So what light reading did you pull for me?”

Harry, it turns out, is very good at his job. All four of the books he chose are exactly the sort of books I would want to read, if I wanted to read. I wonder how he chose them. Are these the sort of books all trashy paperback readers enjoy, or does Harry, after only one real conversation with me, already know me so completely? I suspect it is the first, but I secretly hope it is the second.

“So what do you think?” he asks, as he finishes describing the books. “Do any of these sound interesting?”

“I’ll take this one,” I say, pointing to _Secret Ministry_. Harry hands it to me, and our fingers touch briefly. “Thank you so much for helping me. It really was a pleasure to see you again.”

It was wonderful seeing you as well.” Harry smiles, then tilts his head to the side. “Say, Edward, would you like to go to dinner some time?”

“Oh!” I have to say, I was not expecting that. I mean, this was the ultimate goal of this outing, to arrange a more intimate meeting (dare I say, a date?), but I didn’t expect Harry to ask _me_.

I must not have looked as enthusiastic as I felt, because Harry quickly added “I apologize if I’m being forward, it’s just that I’ve only been in London for about a year, and I’ve only really met women. I-I mean, not like that, I just- most of my coworkers are women, you see, and-”

“Harry,” I interrupt, “I’d love to go to dinner. I can take you to places you can’t go with women.”

Harry runs his hand over the back of his neck. He looks a little embarrassed, but he’s smiling. “Alright. I’d like that.”

“Give me your phone number, we’ll set something up.” 

I hand Harry a pen and he writes his number down on a dry cleaning receipt he pulls from his wallet. He places the receipt on top of my book.

“There,” he says, “you can take the book up to the cash register, Harold can ring you up.”

“Harold?”

“He owns the place, but we’re short staffed, so he’s manning the register today.” 

“Ah yes, I met Harold earlier. I gather he’s a bit of a character.”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

“Did you find Harry?” Harold asks, as he rings up my book.

“I did! We’ve, ah, arranged a meeting.”

“Good.” He narrows his eyes at me. “Harry’s one of my best employees, you know.”

“I don’t doubt it,” I say cautiously. “He was very helpful.”

“He’s a smart lad, but he’s more sensitive than he lets on. Just make sure when you return that hat, you return it in pristine condition.”

“Of course,” I say, as I take my book. I leave the bookshop more confused than ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have any issues with this story please blame my mother because she smoked while pregnant with me. Listen to Edward folks, smoking kills!
> 
> If you would like to know more about Edward and Harry, or if you would simply like to make friends with a world famous fan fiction author, contact me at Ladiesloveduranduran on Tumblr or Discord.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edward and Harry go on a date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go! I now have an outline of the whole fic, so I feel alright publishing chapters as I go. This is kind of a long one, but I didn't want to split it up.
> 
> Both highinfibre and OdioEtAmo looked over this at some point, but I've made plenty of edits since then so don't blame them if it sucks.
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to Reggie.

I feel a bit like a teenager, sitting by the phone, waiting for Edward’s call. Well, not like myself as a teenager, but I remember Dolores and Joan skulking around the house waiting for their crush of the week to call them up and ask them out. I’m sure Martha did it too, but she was only 12 when I was drafted, so I didn’t get to see it. Dolores, Joan, and Martha are my sisters, by the way. I probably should have said that.

But anyway, now I’m living a sort of second adolescence where I sit in my room, sketching pictures of Edward, and running into the kitchen every time the phone rings so I can pick it up before Mildred does. Mildred is my landlady, and she’s old and crotchety and half deaf. I’m afraid if she picks up on Edward, she’ll just hang up. I live in her spare room, and I can tell she doesn’t like it when I answer her phone, but she doesn’t actually say anything to me outright, so it’s worth her angry mumbling.

Of course, I can’t always pick up the phone. For example, right now, I’m getting ready for bed, and when the phone rings, my pajama pants are only half on. I try to pull them up so quickly I end up tripping and falling flat on my face. Mildred picks up.

“Hello?” I hear her say from the kitchen. “Hello? Sorry, I don’t know a Perry.”

“Mildred, it’s for me!” I call, but of course she can’t hear me. I pick myself up and run into the kitchen, pulling up my pants as I go. 

“Young man, I think you have the wrong number,” she says, “and if you phone here again, I’ll call the police.”

“Mildred, no, it’s for me!” I say. I snatch the phone from her hands. It’s not exactly a polite thing to do to an old woman, but desperate times and all that. “Hello?”

“Harry!” Edward says brightly from the other end. “I was just talking to your wife.”

“Very funny.” Even over the phone, it’s obvious Mildred’s about a hundred years old.

Edward laughs lightly. “How have you been?”

“Alright. Nothing too exciting going on.” Mildred is still standing next to me, staring harshly. I put my hand on the receiver. “Mildred, it’s alright. It’s for me.”

“Fine. But remember you pay half the phone bill. And don’t stay up too late!” I roll my eyes as she totters away. I swear to God, I don’t know how I ended up with so many old women trying to run my life.

“Sorry about that,” I say to Edward. “My landlady’s being nosy.”

“She seems like a joy.”

“She’s alright.” I haul myself up onto the counter. “We’ve got sort of an adversarial relationship, to be honest.”

“How so?” 

“Well, she’s always telling me what to do, and I never do it.”

“So it’s less an arch-enemies relationship, and more a mother and misbehaving son relationship.”

I laugh. Something about the way he says it is so charming.

“I suppose so. Our relationship isn’t all bad, sometimes she’ll bake me scones.”

“Are they any good?”

“That’s the worst part, they’re delicious.” 

“So you’re stuck with her then.”

“Exactly.” I stick my socked foot out and rest it on the top of the refrigerator door. If Mildred sees this, she’ll just about have a heart attack, but she’s got a tread like an elephant so I figure I’ll hear her in time to save myself. Like I said, adversarial relationship. “What have you been up to?”

“Not much. Work, mostly. Flu season started early this year, so I’ve been busy. I hope you weren’t offended that I haven’t called you sooner.”

“Not at all,” I say, as if I hadn’t spent the last three days lying in bed lovesick, afraid I’d never hear from Edward again.

“Well, I’m calling now. Are you free Saturday?”

“I am!” 

“Great! Do you like French food?”

“I do.” I’ve never been to a fancy French restaurant or anything, but I had plenty of French food when I was stationed in France, and I liked that well enough.

“Me too. There’s a French restaurant I really like, _Le Cigare Volant_ , I’m sure I can get us a reservation.”

“Wonderful! What time?”

“I can pick you up around seven, if that’s alright?”

I bite my thumbnail. Pick me up? That’s a very good sign. You meet up with friends, but you pick up a date. I think. I lived in Manhattan before this, so I’ve never dated anyone with a car. But I remember picking up Marjorie Rollins for the Senior Prom in my father’s pickup truck, so I’m probably right. 

“Seven is perfect,” I say, and then I give him my address. 

“Great,” he says, “I’ll see you Saturday. It’s a nice place, so dress sharp.”

“Will do. Bye, Edward.”

“Bye, Harry.”

The day of my big dinner with Edward has me scrubbing like I’ve never scrubbed before. It’s not that I’m unclean, or anything. I mean, I _shower._ But I’m an artist, and a hazard of the lifestyle is that I’ve almost always got paint in the strangest places. Normally, I don’t worry about it, but I want to look really nice. It would hardly do to show up at a fancy restaurant with paint on my earlobe (I mean, really. What the hell was I doing?). And even if he were taking me to some crumby old diner, I’d want to look nice for him. Edward’s a doctor, and he’s English, and he’s just about the most charming man I’ve ever met. I’m not sure what sort of brain injury he’s got that makes him want to go out with me, but I want to look sharp so he doesn’t suddenly come to his senses and realize how boring and ordinary I really am.

I’ve done just about everything else I need to do: I’ve showered, I’ve shaved, I’ve gone to the bank and taken out a frankly disgusting amount of cash to pay for dinner. I’ve chosen my very nicest suit, which may still not be nice enough, but it will have to do, because I can’t afford to buy a new one. It’s already pressed and laid out on my bed, and all that’s left to do is put it on. It’s only six, so I’ve got all the time in the world left to scrub.

That is, unless Mildred has anything to say about it.

“Harry, hurry up in there!”

“Give me a minute!” I’m actually pretty much done; the red paint on my earlobe has faded to a barely noticeable pink. I keep scrubbing anyway, out of spite.

“Harry!” Mildred shouts again.

“Fine!” I throw open the bathroom door. “It’s all yours, Mildred.”

“Oh, I don’t need to use the toilet,” she says, “I just didn’t want you using all the hot water.” She totters away. I really don’t know what I did to deserve this woman.

When Edward finally knocks on the door, I’ve been pacing around the living room for what feels like hours. I throw open the door with a bit more enthusiasm than is probably cool, given the situation.

“Hello!” I say. Edward looks a little startled. Definitely too much enthusiasm on the door, then.

“Hello. Are you ready to go?” 

Edward’s car is nice, far nicer than any car I’ve ever been in. I consider asking him about it, but I don’t know anything about cars so it wouldn’t mean anything to me. We chat pleasantly about nothing in particular, and as we get closer to the restaurant, I feel a distinct sense of anxiety rise in my chest. I mean, here I am, some overgrown farm boy in his Sunday best going on what may or may not be a date with a blond bombshell in a sleek red sports car. It’s madness, and there’s no way I won’t somehow make a fool of myself. But before my nerves can get too bad, Edward makes a joke, and his eyes glint, and his hand moves on the gear shift in a way that feels distinctly sexual, and I feel much better.

The anxiety returns when we get to _Le Cigare Volant_ . This place is _nice._ I mean, really nice. Crystal chandelier, women in long dresses nice. I feel immediately out of place. I fiddle with my cuffs as Edward speaks to the Maitre d’. My shirt doesn’t even have cufflinks, just a button and a buttonhole. It seemed like a sporty, practical choice when I bought the shirt, but now I feel foolish. Surely everyone in the restaurant is staring at me and my cufflinkless cuffs. Edward, on the other hand, is wearing gold cufflinks set with a black stone, and he looks incredibly debonair. 

The Maitre d’ leads us to our table. The table has a white tablecloth, a candle, real china, and most distressingly, two forks at each place setting. Edward nods politely at the Maitre d’ as he hands us menus.

“This is a nice place,” I say, stupidly.

“It is! I like it here. It’s got a great atmosphere, don’t you think?”

“Sure, very, uh, chic.”

Fortunately, I don’t have to come up with anything more articulate than that, because the waiter arrives.

“Good evening, monsieurs,” he says, in a French accent that may or may not be real. “May I take your drink order?”

“Yes, I’ll have a gin and tonic,” Edward says.

“I’ll have the same,” I say. I’d rather have an Old Fashioned, but I’m suddenly paranoid that it's the wrong thing to order. 

“Very good, monsieurs,” the waiter says, then sidles away.

“I didn’t know you were a gin drinker,” Edward says. “To be honest, you struck me as sort of a whiskey man.”

My heart tightens a bit in my chest. I _am_ a whiskey man. “Oh, well, I am usually. A whiskey drinker, that is, but when you ordered gin, it sounded nice, so.” I shrug, then immediately feel self-conscious. This is hardly the kind of place where one _shrugs_.

“I thought so. I’ve got a read on you, Harry.” Edward looks down at his menu. “The veal here is very good. I might get that. What do you think?”

“I could do veal,” I say. It’s about the only thing on the menu I recognize anyway.

“Are you alright? You look nervous.”

“Oh, no, I’m fine, just looking at the menu.”

“Are you sure?”

“I don’t belong here,” I blurt out. “This is a very fancy place, I’m underdressed, I don’t know how to behave, I don’t recognize half the things on this menu, and I don’t know what fork to use.”

“Oh, Harry.” Edward frowns. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable when I chose this place. I really thought you’d like the food. For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re underdressed. You, ah, you actually look quite nice, I think.”

“Really?” 

“Really. Look, you’re not dining at Buckingham Palace. It’s a restaurant, we’re customers. They’re not going to kick us out if you don’t know all the proper etiquette.” Edward’s foot slides forward under the table, so the toe of his shoe rests against mine. “I can help you with the menu. And if you really want to know about the forks, you work from the outside in. Outside fork for the first course, inside for your main course.”

“You sound as if you _have_ dined at Buckingham Palace.”

“I have. Everyone in the empire gets to at some point. They give you a time slot.”

We both laugh. The waiter approaches with our drinks. 

“Are you ready to order, monsieurs?”

“I think we’ll need another minute,” Edward says, “my friend was just explaining the menu to me.”

***

Dinner at _Le Cigare Volant_ is one of the best dinners I’ve ever had, due entirely to the company of Harry. Even the food and wine are better for him being there.

“If you’re going to get the veal,” he says at one point, “we should get a bottle of the pinot noir. Veal goes best with a light red.”

“Alright,” I say agreeably. “I don’t know anything about wine, except that I like it.”

Harry, it seems, knows so much about wine because he grew up on a vineyard.

“It’s not as fancy as it sounds,” he insists, “It’s mostly just like any other kind of farming.”

“But what about prohibition? What did they grow then?”

“They still made wine then, actually. They just sold it to churches for communion and such.”

“And that was legal?”

“Oh yes. Of course, they also kept some for themselves and friends, which was less legal. But the Catholic Church really did keep us afloat in those days.”

“Well then,” I say, lifting my gin and tonic, “let’s toast to the Catholic Church.”

With Harry, I feel oddly comfortable, like I can discuss things I would be far too embarrassed to bring up normally on a date.

“It’s called the Fermi Paradox,” I say, “and the paradox is, why haven’t we met any aliens, when surely they must exist?”

Harry frowns. “Aliens aren’t real, Edward.”

“But that’s the thing,” I say, waving my fork around. “Scientifically speaking, they almost certainly are!”

Harry bites back a smile. “Okay, explain it to me then.”

“Well, life exists on earth, and not on, say, Venus, because Earth is hospitable to life. We’ve got water, and an atmosphere, and we’re the perfect distance from the sun, right?”

“Sure.”

“Well, there are billions upon billions of stars in the galaxy, and most of these stars have got planets, so statistically speaking, there’s got to be plenty of planets like Earth. I mean, we can’t be special, can we?” I’m getting a bit worked up now.

“I suppose not.”

“So surely, at least some of these planets have fostered life as well.”

“Alright, I’ll buy that, but what if these life forms are just bacteria? And even if there is intelligent life out there, who's to say they’ve got the technology to contact us? I mean, _we_ don’t.”

“Harry, you can’t possibly think we’re the most advanced species in the universe.”

Harry manages to hold in his laughter, but his eyes are big and bright. “I don’t know, I like to think we’ve done alright.”

“Sure, maybe we’re in the top ten percent, but when you consider the numbers, Harry, I mean, they’re _vast_. The chances that we’re the most advanced is almost zero. And the chances that there is at least one alien race out there with technology advanced enough to contact us is very high. So why haven’t they contacted us?”

“What’s your theory?”

“I don’t know. Maybe they just don’t like us.”

“Are we really that unlikable as a species?”

“Some people are.”

“And what about us?” Harry cocks his head. “Would aliens like us?”

“Oh Harry,” I say, “Aliens would adore you.”

Throughout dinner, our feet have been sliding closer and closer together, until they are completely pressed against each other. At one point, later in the night, I run the tip of my shoe up Harry’s ankle, under his pant leg. He smiles at me and ducks his head, and I smirk back. He pulls at his earlobe, which has flushed to a delicious shade of pink.

I want him. God, I want him, and at this point, I know he wants me too. He’s practically panting into his wine glass. I want to say, ‘sod the bill, sod this restaurant, let’s just go to my car and tear each other's clothes off.’ But I don't. Instead, I ask the waiter for the check, and wait for it patiently.

When the bill comes, Harry tries to reach for it, but I won’t let him.

“No, Harry, I’ve got this.”

“No, I can pay it. I’m the one who asked you to dinner.”

I look at the bill. There’s absolutely no way I can let him pay it, it’s probably close to a week’s wages for him.

“Harry, I’ve got this. Please. Let me treat you.” I run my shoe up his leg again, which is playing a bit dirty, but it works.

“Fine. Thank you, Edward,” he adds, as I pull out my wallet.

“You’re welcome.” This is it, the moment. “Say, it’s not very late. Would you like to come back to my place for another drink?”

“I would love to.”

When we get to my flat, I don’t make drinks. That’s a little trick I’ve learned: if you invite someone back to your place for drinks, don’t bother making the drinks. You’re only going to have about one sip, and it’s a waste of perfectly good alcohol. Instead, I help Harry remove his coat. I do it partly to be a gentleman, and partly to run my hands over his back. I half expect him to turn around and kiss me right there, but he’s too entranced by his surroundings.

“This is a really nice place,” he says, and he’s not wrong. I’ve put a lot of effort into my flat, and it’s quite stylish. It’s got a blue and yellow color scheme with a lot of dark wood, and an open floor plan. The best part, however, are the floor-to-ceiling windows, which give me a breathtaking view of the river.

“What can I say? I’ve got an eye for beautiful things.” 

Harry smiles, until his eyes light upon my telly.

“You've got a TV?” he asks incredulously.

“I do. I only got it about three months ago. It’s got a 17 inch screen,” I say proudly. I almost offer to let him watch it, but I’ve found that television can be strangely addictive, even when there’s nothing good on, and I don’t want to spend the night in front of the tube.

“That’s fantastic. I know a lot of people think it’s a fad, but I think it’s the way of the future.” Harry wanders around my living room a bit more, looking at the decor, and I’m not sure whether or not to encourage him. I’m torn between my desire to show off my gorgeous home and my desire to kiss him senseless.

“This is a beautiful piano,” he says. “You said you play, right?”

“I do.” I walk closer to him, resting my hand on his shoulder.

“I never learned. It seems like a good skill to have.”

I lean back against the piano, looking up at Harry. “It is. I’m very impressive at parties.”

Harry grins. “I think you’re very impressive all of the time.”

I take hold of his tie, playing with the end. “I’m glad you think so.”

“You’re very forward, you know that?”

I lick my lips. “No one’s ever told me that before.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

I shrug. “Alright, I lied. I wanted you to feel special. I’m running out of moves here, Harry.” 

Harry leans closer. “Fortunately, I’ve still got a couple moves left.”

And then he kisses me.

It feels good. Fantastic. Better than a first kiss has any right to. His fingers are cold as he cups my jaw, still chilled from the October night air, but his mouth is warm and inviting.

He pulls away eventually, his hand still on my face and my hand on his wrist.

“I’ve wanted to do that since the moment I first saw you.”

“Then please,” I say, reaching for his shoulder, “keep doing it.”

Harry kisses me again, this time more fiercely. I wrap my fingers in his beautiful brown curls and tug gently. His hands slip down my back, pulling my shirttails out of the back of my trousers. I begin working on the buttons of his shirt and, well, if I told you any more than that, it simply wouldn’t be gentlemanly. 

“You should spend the night,” I say, running my finger along Harry’s bare forearm. I don’t usually ask men to spend the night the first time I sleep with them, but there’s something about the way Harry looks, lying naked in my bed, that makes the idea of asking him to leave feel unbearable.

“I can’t, Mildred will be suspicious if I come back tomorrow in tonight’s clothes.”

“Did you tell her where you were going?”

“No.” Harry captures my hand in his, running his fingers along my knuckles.

“Then tell her you went to a party, drank too much, had to spend the night.”

“She won’t approve of that either, but she’ll accept it.” Harry brings my hand to his lips, kissing it. “But what will I wear? I don’t think your pajamas will fit.”

“I like what you’re wearing right now.” I tear my hand from his and wrap it behind his knee, drawing his leg closer to me. 

“Mm, Mildred certainly won’t approve of _that._ ”

“Then I suggest you don’t tell her.” I lean forward and kiss Harry. It’s meant to be a short kiss, but Harry puts his hand around my neck and bites gently at my lower lip and really, how could anyone kick a man like that out of their bed?

Harry breaks the kiss, but he leaves his hand on my neck, and his face is still very close to mine. It’s very intimate, and I find myself scared out of my wits by said intimacy. It’s a good kind of scared though, the kind that’s tinged with excitement and promise.

“Since I’m going to be here all night,” Harry asks shyly, “do you think we could watch some TV?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes the restaurant in the chapter is named after the restaurant from Frasier because I have absolutely no shame.
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr or Discord as Ladiesloveduranduran, or at the New York Stock Exchange as KO


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We learn more about Harry's past, Harry meets some of Edward's friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many people to thank!
> 
> Firstly, thank you to Ghibaryghat for looking over this chapter and assuring me that I'm allowed to be mean to British people.
> 
> Thank you to OdioEtAmo for inventing Sholto, the chatterbox pilot of my dreams.
> 
> And thank you to the Ghosts OC Discord for explaining soccer teams and Devonshire accents to me. I now know more than I ever though I would.

When I was 24, I had a boyfriend named Philip who never let me stay the night. I used to try all sorts of things, like pretending to fall asleep in his bed, or starting a card game so late at night that by the time we were done the trains weren’t running anymore, but he’d always just shake me awake or give me money for a cab. I could never get him to spend the night at my dorm either; I’d ask him, nearly beg him, but he’d just give me a sweet little kiss and head out the door. 

Let me back up, because this will make more sense with some context. I say Philip was my boyfriend, but he wasn’t  _ really  _ my boyfriend, on account of he wouldn’t let me call him that. I met Philip Scanlon in February of our sophomore year at Columbia, when my best friend John Van der Kley introduced us. It doesn’t really matter what Philip looked like, but I hate in books when they don’t describe a character so you form your own idea of what they look like, but then later on they say “she ran her fingers through her blonde hair” but  _ you  _ were picturing her as a brunette, so I’ll go ahead and describe him. Philip had thick black glasses, brown hair that was almost red, and one of those mouths where you could always see his front teeth no matter what. He was handsome in a very sweet sort of way where you wanted to hold his chin and kiss his cheeks and tell him everything was going to be alright, even if nothing was wrong.

He and John were working on homework in the library, and when John saw me he waved me over to join them. Philip and I started talking, and it turned out he and I had the same sense of humor, and we liked all the same sorts of movies, and we both couldn’t stand the New York winters. We started spending more and more time together. According to my friends, we were spending  _ all _ our time together, but I think that’s a little dramatic. It was all perfectly regular and innocent, until one night in March, we were sitting on the floor of his Manhattanville apartment, getting terrifically drunk, and he playfully pushed my chest, but his hand lingered just a little too long, and I kissed him, right on his beautiful, toothy mouth (see, aren’t you glad I described him?).

I had never kissed a boy before. I had wanted to, for ages, with boys in high school and boys in the army and boys in college and boys I saw in movies. But I knew it was wrong, so I didn’t. I guess with Philip, I just couldn’t take it anymore.

Fortunately, Philip kissed me back. We kissed for awhile, until Philip said he was tired, so we both went to sleep together, curled around each other in his bed. That was the only time we ever spent the night together, actually. The next morning, he told me he liked me, and that he wanted to keep spending time with me. He wanted to hold me and kiss me, but we were just having fun. We weren’t dating, we weren’t going to spend the night anymore, and we certainly weren’t ever going to have sex.

(We almost had sex, once. We were kissing in bed, and things were getting pretty intense, if you know what I mean. I was grinding against his hip, and he didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he seemed to like it. I put my hand on his belt and whispered “can I?” and he froze. He pushed me off and told me I had to leave immediately. He wouldn’t return my calls for a few weeks, then one day, out of the blue, he called me and asked me to the movies and we just pretended the incident never happened.)

What was the point of this story? Oh yes. Spending the night. Philip never let me spend the night, but Edward does, on the first night. He trusts me to spend the night next to him, my arm wrapped around his chest and my nose buried in the back of his neck. The next morning, he makes me a cheese omelet and puts on the radio and we both make fun of Perry Como but Edward sings along anyway. And I think that even if Philip and I had had sex, it wouldn’t have been anything like this.

(Our Junior year, Philip came back from Spring Break engaged to some girl he had gone to high school with. When he told me about it, he said he was so sorry but it had to be that way, and we both cried. After that, we never spoke again.)

But like I said, it isn’t like that with Edward. When we spend time together, it’s lovely, and it’s romantic, and he isn’t ashamed of me. 

“You should meet some of my friends,” he says to me suddenly. We’re sitting on my bed together, working on something called a cryptic crossword. It’s like a regular crossword, except less fun, but Edward likes them, apparently.

“Oh yeah? How will you introduce me?” I chew the end of the pen.

“As my boyfriend.” He flushes. “I mean, if you don’t mind. I know we’ve only been on three dates, four if you count this, but-”

“No, that’s fine,” I say quickly, “I like that. I just meant, do they know about you?”

“Oh! Yes! They very much do.” He runs his hand through his hair. “They, ah- well, I should just tell you, I’ve slept with most of them.”

“Oh.”

“It’s all in the past, of course, we really are just friends, but I thought you should know, going in.”

“I see. I haven’t actually agreed to meet your friends, you know.”

“Well, now you can make an informed decision.”

“Alright, I’ll go.”

“Great! I’ll set something up. What’s the next clue?”

“Creed of Christianity is 75% niceness. Edward, it doesn’t make any sense.”

“It’s not  _ supposed  _ to make sense. That’s what makes it cryptic.”

I throw the pen on the bedspread. “This is my least favorite part of English culture.” 

“Really? I thought it was the fact that we butter our sandwiches.”

“Ah yes. There’s just so much to hate, how can I choose?” 

Edward slides his feet off the bed. “Well, if you hate the English so much, perhaps I should leave.”

I grab his wrist. “Oh, come on, convince me. Surely there’s something the English do well.”

Edward looks at me. His smile can only be described as wicked. “How long until Mildred gets home?”

I check my watch. “About 45 minutes. I’m not sure we’re going to have time to finish our crossword, at this rate.”

Edward pulls the crossword book out of my hand and throws it on the floor. “Forget about the crossword puzzle. I’m going to show you what we English  _ really  _ excel at.”

***

I plan to meet my friends for drinks at this place called Foster’s. Not everyone I invited can make it, but that’s probably better; my friends can be a bit overwhelming. I chose Foster’s because it tends to attract a lot of men like us, and the owners don’t really care, as long as we’re careful and aren’t too obvious about picking each other up. Not that any of us are picking anyone up tonight, but it’s nice to be in friendly company.

Harry and I walk in together, and I immediately spot our group, because Reggie is practically jumping up and down in his seat waving at us.

“Hello! Edward! Over here!” Reggie Atwell is quite possibly the most obviously queer man I have ever met. Fortunately, he’s a choreographer, and that sort of thing’s more accepted in the theater. I met Reggie here at Foster’s, actually. He picked me up in May of 1949, and then again in September. Neither of us realized we had slept together before until we made it all the way to his flat and I recognized the horrible porcelain rabbit on his hallway table from the last time I was there. We pretty quickly became friends after that, although I try to avoid spending time at his place, on account of the nauseating decor. 

“Hello, Reggie,” I say as we approach the table. “Gentlemen, this is Harry Newell. Harry, this is Reggie Atwell, Whitey Whitehurst, and Sholto Pymm.”

“Nice to meet you,” Harry says. He takes the empty seat next to Reggie, and I take the empty seat next to Sholto.

“My name isn’t actually Whitey,” Whitey says. “It’s Charles.”

“Oh, sorry, would you prefer I call you that?” Harry asks.

“No, no, everyone calls me Whitey, you might as well too,” he says glumly.

“It’s so lovely to meet you,” Reggie says flirtatiously. He shakes Harry’s hand with both of his, his fingers lingering on Harry’s wrist.

“Reggie!” I say warningly.

“What?” Reggie looks at me. “You didn’t say he was handsome.”

“Yes he did. He said it many times,” Whitey says.

“He did,” Sholto says. “I remember.” I met Sholto back when I was doing my clinical training, during the war. I used to hang around the air base in Northolt trying to have it off with pilots, and he was a pilot. “In fact, he told us that Harry was the best looking man he’s ever been with, which is funny now that I’m seeing Harry because I can think of at least three men he’s been with who are better looking-”

“Sholto!” I kick him in the ankle. I love Sholto, but he doesn’t know when to shut up.

“That’s alright,” Harry says, “clearly none of those three men are at this table.” 

It’s quiet for a moment, and then Sholto and Reggie start to laugh. Even Whitey sort of smiles a bit.

“I like you,” Reggie says. He rests his head in his hand, cocking his head flirtatiously. “I’m so glad you came.”

“Me too. I’ve heard very good things about this place.”

“Edward’s never brought you here before?” Whitey asks. “I’m surprised.”

“Oh, Edward used to be the king of Foster’s,” Reggie says. “He would hold court at the bar, with a whole flock of men around him desperate to buy him a drink.”

“The owners hated it,” Whitey says. “He was not subtle.”

“Well, those days are behind me,” I say with an air of finality. “I’m a grown man now.”

Reggie snorts. “I saw you here last month.”

Sholto, who has been practically vibrating with the effort of keeping quiet, suddenly bursts. “Harry, I hear you’re from California, which is so interesting to me, because I read a book about the California Gold Rush and I think you would really like it. Did you know that almost none of those prospectors made any real money? In fact, the real money was in selling supplies to the prospectors, or in prostitution, of course, which I suppose you could argue is a form of selling supplies. The only people who made any real money in gold got there in 1848, but most of the miners got there in 1849 once most of the gold was gone. You’ve heard the term miner 49er, of course, I mean, you have an American football team called the 49ers, right? It was in my book. It’s so funny that we both have a sport called football. Although ours makes more sense because your football is mostly throwing-”

“Sholto,” Whitey says gently. He puts his hand on Sholto’s elbow, and Sholto stills immediately. “I’m going to get drinks. Edward, would you like to help me carry them?”

“Sure,” I say. I feel a bit bad about leaving Harry to deal with Reggie and Sholto on his own, but I get the sense Whitey has something he wants to say to me.

“Wait, you don’t know what I want to drink!” Sholto complains. 

“Yes I do, you want a vodka tonic with a lemon,” Whitey says, patting Sholto on the shoulder. Sholto smiles.

“You know Sholto’s order?” I ask, as we approach the bar. 

Whitey shrugs. “We work together, we’ve got all sorts of business lunches. You know how it is.”

“Not really. We don’t drink on the clock at my job.”

“Of course, Doctor Button, you always take your job very seriously. You’ve never gotten drunk on a work night.”

I chuckle. Whitey can actually be sort of funny when he isn’t being absolutely miserable. 

“I never said I don’t come to work hungover, Whitey. There’s an important distinction.” The bar is fairly busy, but when the bartender sees me, he comes over immediately. Perks of being a former regular.

“Edward! How are you?” the bartender says flirtatiously. I think his name is Daniel, or Dale, or something like that. “I know a couple of patrons who will be very glad to see you’re here.”

“Unfortunately, he’s here with someone,” Whitey says. 

“It’s true, I’m afraid.”

“Ah, that’s too bad,” Donald (Douglas?) says. “What can I get you boys?” 

“A scotch and soda, a vodka tonic with a lemon, a Tom Collins, a gin and tonic, and..” Whitey looks at me. “What does Harry want?” 

“Old Fashioned. Something decent for the whiskey, if you don’t mind.”

David raises his eyebrows. “You know his drink order, huh? Must be serious.”

“Oh, uh, I suppose so.” I don’t really know what to say to that. It is getting serious, in a way. I’m introducing him to my friends. I’m calling him my boyfriend. I don’t do that, not really. I have flings, sure, and I’ve been in love once, but this is all very different.

“So,” Whitey says, as he watches Declan make our drinks, “you’re serious about him.”

“I am.” And then, because it feels like he wants me to say it, “I hope you don’t mind.”

“I don’t. We were only schoolboys, really.”

“Exactly,” I say warmly, but I wish I could roll my eyes. Really, Whitey. I wonder if he’s this serious about everyone he’s ever had sex with.

“He must be fantastic, to have Edward Button smitten.” He says it bitterly, but I choose to ignore his tone. 

“He really is. He’s so clever, and talented, and he’s funny, and I get so excited whenever I’m near him, you know what I mean?”

The side of Whitey’s mouth quirks slightly. “I do know what you mean. I’m happy for you, you know. I know I don’t seem it, but I am. You deserve to be happy.”

“Thanks, Whitey.” 

Dennis slides the drinks toward us. “Here you are, gentlemen.” 

“Thanks, Peter,” Whitey says, as he hands him some coins (Peter!). “Keep the change.”

We carry the drinks back to the table, where Sholto and Harry are talking intently about American football. How Sholto became an expert on the subject, I will never know. Reggie looks like he wants to stab someone.

“Thank God,” he says as we return with the drinks. He practically snatches his Tom Collins from Whitey. “You have no idea how much I need this.”

“I hope Sholto hasn’t been driving you too crazy,” I say as I hand Harry his drink.

“Not at all,” Harry says with a smile. “I was starting to fear I’d never get to talk about the 49ers again.”

“You should become a real football fan,” I tell Harry, “then Whitey’ll have someone to talk about it with.”

“I don’t want to talk about football,” Whitey moans into his drink. 

“Whitey supports Torquay United,” Sholto explains, “and they’re not very good. Well, they’re alright. They’re getting better. I think this season-”

“Please, Sholto,” Reggie says, “if I have to hear about sport for another minute I’ll simply keel over and die.”

“What did you think of them?” I ask Harry later. We’re in my bed, still a little drunk, and I’m spooning Harry. 

“I like them,” he says. “They’re a trip. What’s the deal with Whitey? I mean, the way he speaks.”

“Oh, he’s always like that. A little miserable, a little grumpy. Don’t take it to heart, I think he likes you.” I kiss the back of Harry’s neck. 

“Oh, no, I meant his accent. It’s different from yours. Where’s he from?”

I snort. “I’ll say it’s different from mine. Whitey’s from Devonshire, and the accent is awful.” I press a series of kisses to Harry’s ear.

“I don’t know,” Harry says thoughtfully. “I thought it was quite charming.”

I cease my kissing. “You can’t mean that.”

“I do. It was even… dare I say it, sexy.”

“No. You’re lying. They’ve got the absolute worst accent, worse than  _ Birmingham. _ ”

Harry laughs. “Ok, alright. You know I just like winding you up.” He turns around to face me. “Thank you for that.”

“For what?”

“For taking me to meet your friends. It meant a lot to me.”

I brush a piece of hair behind his ear. “You’re important to me. I want you to be part of my life.”

Harry nods. “And I want to be a part of your life, Neddy.”

I still. “Neddy?” 

“Oh, sorry, I should have asked. Do you mind?”

“Not at all.” I can’t stand it when people try to call me Eddy, or God forbid Ed, but Neddy is nice. “I love it.”

“Good.” Harry kisses me on the nose. “Do you mind if I stay the night?”

“Of course not. You’re not worried about Mildred?”

“I told her I’m on a fishing trip, I’ll get back tomorrow.”

“Ah, but what if I said no? You would have been homeless for the night.”

“Oh Neddy, you were never going to say no.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 20 points to the first person who guesses what the answer to that cryptic crossword clue is.
> 
> No annotations, but there is a note I wanted to make: The San Francisco 49ers didn't form until 1946, when Harry was in college, so Harry didn't grow up with them. However, they were San Francisco's first major professional sports team, and Harry is from the greater San Francisco area. I think Harry has enough hometown pride to be a fan from afar.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry gets some news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the chapter! It gets worse here every day.

Rose knocks on the door to my studio around 11:15.

“Come in,” I call out. Normally I’m grateful for Rose’s interruptions, because about 70% of my time in the studio is spent messing around. Right now, however, is part of the 30% where I’m actually painting, and I’d rather not be disturbed. However, I know from experience that it’s useless to tell Rose that.

“Good afternoon!” Rose says brightly as she comes in.

“It’s still technically morning,” I say, without turning away from my easel.

“Is it? I’ve been up since four, so it feels much later.”

I hear the sound of her rustling through my sketchbooks. It drives me crazy that she does this, but once again, I know resistance is futile.

“You’ve been sketching quite a lot.”

“I guess so.” Suddenly, I remember exactly what it is I’ve been sketching so much. I turn around to stop her, but I’m too late. She’s currently flipping through page after page of Edward’s face.

“Are you getting into portraiture?” 

“Maybe,” I lie. “A lot of rich folks like that sort of thing, could be a good source of income. My buddy was kind enough to pose for me.”

Rose nods. “These are good. Don’t let it distract you from the real work though, darling.”

“Of course not.”

Rose turns the page. “Oh! How much do you plan to charge for these sorts of drawings?”

“Oh, uh,” I stammer, “that’s- n-no, that’s ah, that’s from my life drawing class.”

“But you teach that class.”

“Yes, well, sometimes I draw along. So the students can see.”

Rose looks back at the drawing. “The models aren’t usually erect, are they?”

“Well, we prefer they not be, but you know, sometimes people get excited.”

“Alright. You know, you ought to keep practicing. You’ve drawn the face of this model very similarly to how you’ve drawn the face of your friend.”

“You’re right,” I say, “all my faces tend to look the same. Rose, I don’t mean to be rude, but I really was on a roll here-”

“Oh, I did have something to tell you! Your painting sold!”

I drop my paintbrush. “What?”

“Your big one, what was it called, with all the orange?”

“Under Sky.” I wince. My painting names sound so stupid when I say them out loud.

“Yes, it just sold! I got the call from Thomas, at the gallery. He’s going to call you to work out details soon.”

“That’s incredible! Do you know who bought it?” 

“Oh, he told me the name, but I don’t remember. It wasn’t anybody important, if that’s what you’re wondering.” 

“No, I was just- gosh, that’s incredible.” I stoop down to retrieve my paintbrush. My head is swimming. I’ve sold paintings before, but neve anything this big, or expensive, or in a real art gallery. I want to scream about it, I want to shout about it, but really, all I want to do is tell Edward. 

Edward and I actually have dinner plans that evening, but I can’t wait that long. I head straight to his apartment from the studio, not even bothering to wash the yellow paint from my chin. When I get there, I hit the buzzer over and over again frantically until Edward buzzes me in. I run up the stairs, which might have been a mistake, because Edward lives on the third floor (or the second floor, as he calls it). I’m not as in shape as I was when I was in the army, so I’m a bit out of breath by the time I get to his door. Edward is standing there with the door open, waiting for me.

“Harry?” he says with a frown. “What’s wrong?” It’s his day off, so instead of his usual suit, he’s wearing a light blue sweater that’s a little too tight in a purposeful way. His hair is a little bit tousled and his eyes look so blue in that sweater and my adrenaline is still running a little high and it takes everything I’ve got not to kiss him there in the doorway.

I don’t wait long. 

“I need to talk to you,” I say as I push him into the apartment with a hand on his chest. He stumbles backwards and I slam the door shut before wrapping my hand in his hair and kissing him. He falters for only a moment before he kisses me back, wrapping one arm around my neck and sliding the other up the back of my sweater. I wish again that I was in shape, so I could lift him by the backs of his thighs and carry him to his bed. I really ought to start working out again.

“Harry, Harry, darling,” he says, pushing me away gently, “what is this?” I feel my chest flood with something warm and ticklish-bordering-on-painful, like someone just injected me with hot soup. Edward’s never called me by a pet name before.  _ Darling.  _ I love it. I dive right back in and kiss his neck. God, I really have everything, don’t I? I live in a beautiful city with a promising career and a boy,  _ the  _ boy, the sweetest, most wonderful-

“Harry!” Edward laughs, tugging at my collar. “Harry, come on. Did you just come over here to fuck me? Not that I’m bothered, mind you. I just want to know. This is an expensive sweater, I can’t have you pawing at it.”

“I like your sweater,” I say stupidly. 

“Thank you. I got it at Harrods.” He starts to remove his sweater, but I stop him.

“Wait, I actually did have something to tell you.”

“What is it? Nothing bad, I hope.”

“No, no the opposite.” I take both his hands in mine. “Edward, I sold my painting.”

Edward smiles. “I know.”

“You know?”

“I was wondering when you’d find out about it. Harry, I bought your painting.”

I let go of Edward’s hands, but he doesn’t notice, as he’s already wrapped then around my shoulders. 

“I was thinking of putting it above my record player. It’ll look nice there, don’t you think?” he whispers in my ear.

“Why?” 

“Because that’s how we met.” He runs a hand down my back. “I hope I don’t sound presumptuous, but-” his voice falters for a second. “I want to remember that moment forever.”

“You shouldn’t have done it,” I say coldly.

“What?” Edward pulls away from me. “What do you mean?”

“Edward, it’s my career. That was my big shot, having my painting in that gallery.”

Edward furrows his brow. “Yes, and it sold. Listen, if this is about the money-”

“It’s not about the money! It’s about- it’s about the principle. I had a chance to do something big, and instead my  _ boyfriend _ bought my painting.” I say the word ‘boyfriend’ with so much vitriol it almost burns. I can see the hurt look on Edward’s face, but I can’t make myself care. How could he do this? How could he ruin this for me like that?

“I was trying to do something nice.” His tone is dark.

“I don’t  _ need _ you to do anything nice for me! I don’t need your pity!”

“Jesus, Harry, it’s not pity. I bought your painting because I like it. I think you’re talented, I- I did it to  _ support _ your career. I did it for  _ us _ .”

“There’s no  _ us _ in this Edward! It’s about me! I have to do this on my own!” I bite my lip. I’m angry in a way I couldn’t control if I wanted to. “But you wouldn’t get that would you? You didn’t do anything on your own. Your father bought your way into Cambridge, then into a job to keep you out of the war. Everything you’ve got, someone else gave you.”

It’s an awful thing to say. Truly, truly cruel, and not even true, really. I regret it almost immediately. I try to backtrack.

“Edward, I didn’t-”

“I think you should leave.” I’ve never seen Edward like this before. His features are like stone.

“Edward, I’m sorry-”

“Get out. Now.” Edward stalks over to the door and opens it.

“Neddy-”

“Now.”

I look at him for a moment. “Fine. I’ll go.” I walk towards the door, pointedly not looking at him.

“You know,” he says with a casual air, “if it makes you feel any better, I guess I didn’t buy your painting. My  _ daddy _ did.” Then he slams the door in my face.

I’m not sure what to do now, where to go. Home, I guess, but I don’t really want to get on the tube while I’m on the verge of tears. I decide to head across the river, to Battersea Park. I feel absolutely awful. I feel guilty, of course, but at the same time I’m still so  _ angry _ . How does he not get it? This was my big chance, my one shot to have my painting hanging in some important collector’s house, to have my name out there, to be more than just some farmer’s son from the backwaters of California. Now it’s going to be hanging in my boyfriend’s apartment, like macaroni art on my mother’s refrigerator.

Except I’m not sure he  _ is _ my boyfriend anymore. I know couples fight, of course, but this was something bigger. It felt more like a breakup than anything else. I can’t imagine him wanting to see me again after what I said, and I can’t imagine forgiving him. 

It’s early afternoon on a Thursday, so the park is mostly empty. I sit on a bench and put my head in my hands. What is it about me, exactly, that makes me so inherently unlovable? Why is it whenever I find someone wonderful, it all falls apart? Am I simply doomed?

That’s the reason I’m in London. I might as well tell you about it now. Right before I moved here, I was living in New York, and I was seeing the most wonderful, intelligent, sophisticated man named Victor Andrews. He had dark hair he kept slicked back, very pale skin, and the most expressive eyebrows. I loved him like I had never loved anyone else, in a way that made me feel out of control and dizzy sometimes. One day, I bought some cheesecake from this bakery he liked, and I went to his apartment to surprise him with it. I let myself in with the spare key he’d given me, only to find him in bed with another man. 

I don’t remember what happened to the cheesecake, but I remember by the time I got home I didn’t have it anymore. A pity, because I could have really used it. I spent about a week in bed before I decided I couldn’t take it anymore. That’s why I went to London; New York had become poisonous. I couldn’t stomach the idea of going to all the places I had been with Victor. Thinking about it left me feeling like I couldn’t breathe, like I wanted to scratch my eyes out and scream my voice hoarse.

Somehow, right now, I feel even worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "But Elizabeth you said on the Discord that the breakup scene wouldn't be for a few more chapters!!!" I know! I lied! Mwahahahahaha


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edward is consoled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes I'm publishing this at 2am GMT. That's the way the cookie crumbles, babey.

It’s been a week and a half since Harry and I broke up, and I am not ashamed to admit that I am doing very poorly. I still go to work, and I still do the shopping, but other than that I don’t leave my flat. I’ve listened to the same Billie Holiday album over and over again to the point where I think the record might break. I’ve been doing more drinking than is strictly healthy, but I can’t make myself care. Nothing seems to mean much anymore, my whole world is just me and Billie and this bottle of gin. I tried drinking wine, but that made me think of Harry, and that just made me absolutely miserable.

The phone rings, and I almost don’t answer it. I’m not really in the mood to speak to friends, and if it’s my brother Clarence, he can fuck right off. But then I realize it could be Harry, and suddenly I’m off the sofa like a shot, running to my phone.

“Hello?” I say into the receiver, as casually as possible.

“Hello Edward, it’s Whitey.”

“Oh, hello Whitey.” I do my best to hide my disappointment.

“I was just calling to make sure we’re on for lunch tomorrow.”

“Sorry, I think I’m going to have to cancel again.” Whitey and I get lunch together almost every Tuesday. We skip occasionally, but almost never two week in a row.

“Oh.” Whitey sounds despondent, which isn’t exactly unusual for him, but it does make me feel guilty. “Is everything all right?”

“Harry and I broke up, so no.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. When was this?”

“Last Thursday.” I can feel the tears prickling at the back of my eyes. I haven’t cried about Harry yet, and I really don’t want to do it now, but actually talking about it is so particularly painful.

“Last Thursday? Edward, why didn’t you say anything?”

I shrug helplessly. “I don’t know, I didn’t want to be a bother.” 

“I don’t know why you have to make things so bloody difficult,” he grumbles. “Hold on, I’m coming over.”

He hangs up before I can say anything else. I hadn’t really wanted anyone to come over, but I guess if you’ve got to be sad, it’s better to do it with Whitey than anyone else.

When Whitey shows up, he’s huffing and puffing a bit, like he ran here. Whitey’s not in the greatest of shape though, so he might have just walked. 

“Hello, Whitey,” I say forlornly from my place on the floor. I’ve got my back against the sofa, and I can’t bother to move.

“Oh Edward,” he says. “This is bad.”

I can see what he means. My normally immaculate apartment is littered with dirty dishes and clothing. I’ve taken to sleeping in the living room, so I can listen to my record, so there is a sweat-drenched blanket and pillow on the sofa. All in all, it’s not a good look.

“I’m sorry,” I say, “ I just can’t- well, I can’t do much of anything.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I don’t know what to say. I bought Harry’s painting, the one I saw at his gallery opening, and he got so mad at me. And then he said some really nasty things, and so I told him to leave, and I haven’t heard from him since.” I wrap my arms around my knees.

“Oh Edward, I’m sorry. Is this it?” He gestures to Harry’s painting, which is leaning against the wall, face in.

“Yes.” I watch as he pulls the painting back to look at it. “I can’t bear to hang it.”

“No, I don’t think you should.” He comes over to the sofa, and, with some effort, he lowers himself to the floor next to me. “Jesus, Edward, how did you get down here?”

“You didn’t have to sit on the floor,” I say crossly.

“Well, I’m here now.” He nudges me lightly with his shoulder. “I really am sorry.”

I lean my head against Whitey’s side. “I don’t know why it hurts so much. It's never hurt like this before.”

“Edward,” Whitey says cautiously, “I think it’s because you love him.”

“Maybe. I’ve been in love before though, and this feels different.”

Whitey wraps his arm around my shoulder. “With who, that American pilot?”

I nod. “Jackie.”

Whitey frowns. “Yes, but that was, that was a bit different, wasn’t it? If I remember correctly, you only dated for about three weeks, before he was shipped off to the continent.”

“But we sent letters. We sent letters for almost a year. He was my sweetheart. I really did love him, Whitey.”

“I’m not saying you didn’t. Edward, I’m honestly not trying to insult you here. I’m just saying, you’ve never had a proper boyfriend like that. Someone you were trying to build something with, you know? Relationships are complicated.” He squeezes me tighter.

“But does it have to be?” I ask petulantly. “I mean, we weren’t complicated.”

“It got pretty complicated at the end.”

“What, when you dumped me out of the blue? I wouldn’t say that was complicated, exactly-”

“It wasn’t out of the blue.”

“What?”

“Edward, I was in love with you.”

I pull back to look Whitey in the eye.

“What are you on about? We weren’t in love, we were just fooling around-”

“You were just fooling around.” Whitey turns his head away. “I was in love with you.”

“Oh.” 

“That’s why I ended things, I couldn’t- I couldn’t bear it any longer. When I was with you, I was deliriously happy, but when you weren’t there-” Whitey picks at his sleeve. “I had to end it. I couldn’t live like that anymore, knowing you would never love me back.”

“Whitey, I’m so sorry.” I really do mean it, too. I remember what Whitey looked like at 20, chubby cheeked with a spotty chin and hair constantly in his eye. He had a face you couldn’t bear to hurt, and yet somehow I had. 

“It’s alright.” He readjusts his shirt. “You can, uh, lean on me again, if you like. I promise I won’t make a move.”

I lay my head back on his shoulder. He feels warm, and solid, and it’s quite nice.

“But you see what I mean,” he continues. “Love is complicated. It makes things messy. He got mad that you bought his painting, did he say why?”

“I think he felt I was taking pity on him. He wanted some big shot to buy it. I don’t see why it matters though, all the big shots already saw the painting at the gallery.”

“I don’t know, I think I understand it. He wanted proof that other people saw value in his work. It’s not something we all get.”

“But it’s silly! Of course people see value in his work!”

“Alright, don’t get mad at  _ me _ .”

I pat Whitey’s knee. “I’m sorry, it’s just- it’s very hard. I was trying to do something for him, you know? A big romantic gesture.”

“Yes, but I don’t think- look, Edward, I’m hardly the expert on romance. I’ve had a pretty awful time of it. But I think it’s not about the grand romantic gestures, you know?”

I frown. “But that’s romance, Whitey. Why wouldn’t he want romance?”

“Alright, but it’s not all that. Here’s an example: when I was young, my father bought my mum a brand new oven. He must have saved for it for months. He had it installed while she was doing the shopping. When she got back, she was so upset. It was a romantic gesture, certainly, but she wanted to pick out her own oven, I mean, she was the one who did the cooking. So I think it’s like that. Grand romantic gestures are nice, but if you want to build something together, you have to build it  _ together. _ And that means asking before you buy his painting.”

“Mm-hm.” I sniffle a little, and Whitey strokes my hair. I worry for a second that he is going to try and kiss me, which would be particularly bad, because I’m in such a state that I just might kiss him back. Fortunately, he doesn’t. 

“Look, if you love Harry, you should try and fix things.”

I bury my nose deeper into Whitey’s neck. “I don’t think he’d want to hear from me.” 

“I’m not sure that’s true, but alright. We can just sit here.” 

So we do. “ _ Where can I be headed for? _ ” Billie sings, “ _ The blues crawled in my door, to lick my heart once more. _ ”

“I’m so sorry, about the way things were with us,” I say eventually, looking up at Whitey. “I really didn’t know. If I’d known, I would have been different, I would have, I don’t know-”

“But you wouldn’t have loved me back, would you?”

I look away. “No, I suppose not.”

“Then it doesn’t really matter.”

This makes me want to cry all over again. “I do hope you find someone, Whitey. You’re very sweet. You deserve to have someone who really loves you.”

Whitey shifts under me. “I have found someone, actually.”

I sit up. “Really?”

Whitey smiles bashfully. “It’s quite new, but I feel very good about it. I like him a lot.”

“What’s his name? Do I know him?”

“You do, actually. It’s, ah, it’s Sholto.”

“Sholto? Sholto  _ Pymm? _ ” I simply can’t imagine it. Whitey and Sholto? It doesn’t make sense.

Whitey starts picking at his sleeve again. “I know, I know what you’re thinking. He’s way too good for me. I’ve got no business being with him.”

“That’s not not what I was thinking at all.” Actually, those two are pretty well matched in terms of appeal. Sholto might be better looking, but Whitey’s personality is a bit more palatable. “You’re a catch, Whitey, he’d be a fool not to see it. How long have you two been a thing?”

“Like I said, it’s quite new. About a week, actually. It’ll probably end in flames, knowing my luck, but it’s good for now.” He smiles. “I like him, Edward, I really do.”

“Well then, I wish you the best.” I scratch my neck. “Ah, do you think Sholto would mind if we kept cuddling for a bit? It’s just, it’s really nice. And I’m very sad.” I gesture around my disgusting living room.

“I don’t think he’d mind, no.” Whitey opens up his arm and I scoot closer to him, once again leaning on his shoulder. He wraps his arm around me and I bury my face in his neck.

“We’ve been through a lot, you and I,” I say. “You’re probably my best friend in the world.”

Whitey kisses the top of my head. “You know what? I think you’re my best friend too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would tell you where you can find me, but if you're reading this you probably already have my home address.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry gets his shit together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is about two things and two things only:  
> 1\. Emotions  
> 2\. Women bullying Harry
> 
> Special thanks to the one and only highinfibre for creating Bert, the king of the OCs. Where would we be without him?
> 
> This is a Harry chapter but it's really more about cameos from other characters, so I might add in an extra Harry chapter later, just because he is my favorite boy (don't tell the others)

“The post is here,” Mildred calls from outside my bedroom door.”You’ve got a few letters.”

“Would you mind bringing it to me?” I call. It’s 2pm, but I’m still lying in bed. I have a lot of trouble getting out of bed these days. 

“Absolutely not,” she says. “I’ve left it in the living room for you.” She opens my door. I am suddenly bathed in a bright and terrible light, forcing me to squint to see her. “Harry, really. You’re still in bed? At this hour?” 

“I’m an adult, Mildred,” I whine. “I can do what I like.”

“This is the third day in a row you’ve slept in. I got a call from your boss. Harvard, or something. He’s worried about you. He says you missed work yesterday.”

I roll my eyes. “Harold. What did you tell him?” 

“Nothing. I hung up on him. I’m not your secretary.” She narrows her eyes. “Is this about a girl?”

“Something like that.” I brush the hair out of my face. My whole body feels sore and a little bit sticky, and no doubt I’ve got something stuck in the horrible beard I’ve started to grow.

Mildred nods knowingly. “I’ll make you some scones. But if you want some, you’ll have to come to the kitchen. I don’t want you getting crumbs everywhere.” She totters away, leaving my bedroom door wide open.

I do eventually make it to the kitchen, where I find a tray of delicious looking cranberry scones. I shove one in my mouth as I make my way to the living room, not caring about the trail of crumbs I’m leaving behind me. I settle on the couch and prop my feet up on the coffee table.

I’ve got three letters. The first one I open is from Bert Slinglesby, Harold’s partner. The letter itself is rimmed in gold, and it is written in beautiful calligraphy.

_Dear Harry,_

_You are cordially invited to a birthday party for one Harold Maglin!_

_When: Saturday, 29th November. The party starts at 2:30pm, the train departs at 3pm._

_Where: St. Pancras Station, platform 3. We will be traveling via private train to Brighton, and then returning to London._

_Attire: Locomotive semi-formal._

_Please note that this is a surprise party! Do not breathe a word of this to our dear Harold! If I find out you told him, you will still be allowed at the party, but your access to champagne will be limited, and I shall be very cross with you._

_You are entitled to bring a plus one, and I do hope you bring that charming blond fellow who’s always popping by the shop._

_RSVP in a timely manner, so I know how many treacle tarts to purchase._

_Love and Kisses,_

_Norbert Ainsley Fitzjohn Regulus Leopold Hamish Slinglesby_

I sigh. Bert is nothing if not a character, and I would have loved to receive any sort of letter from him, had it not been for the reference to Edward. This is part of why I’ve been playing hooky from work; I don’t want to have to explain to anyone about Edward.

Still, I should probably go. Harold’s already worried about me, so it would be good to show my face. Plus, I’ve never been to a train party before. Actually, I’ve never _heard_ of a train party before, but I get the sense that Bert is the kind of rich where he can just invent new types of parties. 

The next letter I open is from the gallery, and it’s the letter I’ve been dreading. Technically, it’s not a letter at all, but instead a check for more money than I have ever seen in check form. It’s my blood money, my Edward money, the money that blew up my entire life and left me scrambling for the pieces. I want to tear it up, but of course I don’t. I may be heartbroken, but I’ve still got bills to pay. Instead, I set it to the side, and then put Bert’s letter on top of it so I don’t have to see it.

The last letter is from my friend Elaine in New York. We correspond pretty regularly, and that last letter I sent her was right after Edward and I had our big fight. 

_Dear Harry,_

_I’ve got some very bad news for you. You’re an idiot._

I snort. Even when she’s being mean, Elaine can always make me laugh.

_Do you really think that was your one chance? Are you really that dumb? You really think you’ll never have a painting in a gallery again? I mean, really. It’s just silly. You were always the best painter out of all of us, myself included (please burn this letter after reading it. I don’t want anyone to know I said that). You are talented, and the fact that Edward bought your painting shows you he agrees. You don’t spend that kind of money on a painting if you don’t think it’s good, even if you love the man who painted it. Because it does sound like he loves you. And honestly? You love him too._

_Before you say anything, because I know you want to argue, you_ _are_ _in love with him. I do read the letters you send me, you know, and sometimes John lets me read the letters you send him (only the safe bits, I assure you! I’ve seen nothing that would be unsuitable for a lady). I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone gush over someone the way you gush over him._

 _Which is why I’m particularly shocked at what you said to him. You’re right, it_ _was_ _awful, and it sounds like it wasn’t even true. I’m hardly an expert on the British military, but wouldn’t doctors be exempt from the draft? I can’t think of a more essential industry than that. And you can hardly insult him for his father paying for his schooling, Uncle Sam paid for yours. I had to work weekends at that dingy little shoe store to pay for Barnard, so if anyone should be judging, it’s me. Even if you don’t want to get back together with him (which you do), you should apologize. I know you, Harry, and you’re not a cruel man. You don’t want to leave things like this._

 _Things are going well here. John and I went to MOMA last weekend to see an exhibit on le Fauves. You would have liked it, I know how you feel about color. No, John and I are not dating. I don’t know where you got this idea that he and I are in love with each other, there’s simply nothing there. Men and women can be friends, you know. We’re friends, aren’t we? I kid! Well, not kid, we_ _are_ _friends, but you know what I mean. But I do have plenty of male friends. I still talk to Ken, Richard, and both the Mikes. John is just my favorite. After you, of course! I’m actually seeing someone right now, his name’s Sol. He’s very charming, I think you’d like him. He’s not as funny as you or John, but nobody’s perfect, right? If you ever come back to New York, you can meet him. Until then, have fun in London, and remember: you are talented, you are smart, and you are handsome, but not nearly as handsome as me._

_As they say where you are, pip pip cheerio!_

_Love,_

_Elaine_

I scrub my hand over my face. Elaine is right, of course. She usually is. Edward didn’t ruin things for me by buying my painting. It wasn’t the last painting I’ll ever paint, and if that one was good enough to be shown in a gallery, I’m sure I’ll be able to paint something at least that good again. Because Elaine’s right, I am good at painting. And Edward would never hang a painting he didn’t like in his living room; he’s too particular for that. He once told me he went to four different furniture stores before he found the perfect end table.

The thought of Edward scouring furniture stores makes my heart clench in my chest. I miss him, I miss him far more than I was ever angry at him. Elaine’s right about that too, I do love him. I love him desperately, and I can’t stand to think about how badly I hurt him. I just got so angry, in the moment. That’s my _hamartia_ , as the ancient Greeks would say, my fatal flaw. I get angry and stubborn and I end up pushing away the people I care about most. Like Edward. But I don’t want to do that anymore. And if Edward were to ever take me back, I would spend every day for the rest of my life trying to be better.

But I’m not sure he ever would.

Even so, I do need to apologize to Edward, at some point. I just need to work up the nerve to see him again. But for now, I’ve got to stop feeling sorry for myself.

I wipe the crumbs from my chest, and go to the kitchen and call my friend Patty.

“Hello?” She says. 

“Hello Patty, it’s Harry.”

“Harry! I’m so glad to hear you’re out of bed. Let me guess, you need me to cover your class again tonight.”

“No, actually, I’m going to teach it. I was just wondering if you’d like to come to a party with me on Saturday.”

“What sort of party?” she asks suspiciously.

“That’s the best part: it’s on a train.”

“Will there be girls there?”

I roll my eyes. Patty can be so predictable sometimes.

“There should be. It’s my boss at the bookstore’s birthday, so I assume my coworkers will all be there.”

“So Clara will be there?”

“How do you know Clara?” 

“I’m a woman about town. I know people. And sometimes I even go to Burley-Mann when you aren’t working. Clara’s the best woman there. She’s a little bit mean to customers and her breasts are so perfectly round.”

“Jesus Christ, Patty.”

“Have you never noticed that?”

I think for a moment. "You know what? I have noticed that. They’re very nice.”

“See?”

“I think you two might really hit it off. You’re both very... direct.”

“Thank you.”

“So you’ll come? I’m just about feeling up to it, but I don’t want to go alone.”

“Of course I’ll come. Anything for you, dear. And anything for Clara.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to all the gay men out there who like titties. They're just good.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The train leaves the station.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost at the end! We're back to switching perspectives mid chapter, so LOOK OUT!!

I have decided that is time for me to leave my flat again. Well, it wasn’t so much that I decided to leave my flat as Reggie kept calling me and pestering me until I agreed to go to a party with him.

“You have to come, Edward,” he whined over the phone. “I’m not going to know anybody there.”

“How did you get invited?”

“One of the backers for my show is hosting it, it’s a surprise party for his partner or something. I don’t know. But I  _ have _ to go, Edward, Bert's so good looking, and I think I have a shot.”

“But he’s got a partner.”

“Oh please. You and I both know that’s not an obstacle.”

So now I’m at St. Pancras station with Reggie looking for a train, because this party, believe it or not, is on a train. The dress code is something called “locomotive semi-formal,” which I have chosen to interpret as a suit jacket over a sleeveless sweater. I’m also wearing my warmest coat over it, because it’s unseasonably cold. We are fashionably late, due entirely to Reggie’s inability to choose an outfit. I spent about 30 minutes helping him sort through his shirts before he finally settled on a white dress shirt with far too many buttons undone and a jaunty pageboy cap. Now, we’ve made it to the station with minutes to spare.

“Here it is,” Reggie says, and drags me onto a brown and beige steam train.

The inside of this train is far more luxurious than any train I’ve ever been on. The walls are paneled in dark wood, and the sides of the car are lined with blue and white velvety sofas. Guests in a variety of dress are lounging on the sofas, most of them drinking. Locomotive semi-formal, it seems, has been interpreted in a variety of ways. A decent number of men have gone for the jumper-and-suit-jacket look, but I see a couple of men in black tie. There’s a woman wearing a fur coat over a Hawaiian shirt, and two people of indeterminate gender dressed as train conductors. I see a woman in a three piece suit and a man in a smart knee length dress. All-in-all, it’s a very queer sort of aesthetic, and it gives me high hopes for the sort of party this will be.

“That’s him,” Reggie says, pointing to a taller gentleman with a bowtie who is currently handing out flutes of champagne. “That’s Bert.”

The man looks very familiar, and I can’t quite place it until he turns to face us fully, at which point it becomes strikingly clear.

“Reggie, I’ve got some bad news for you, and some bad news for me.”

“Tell me the bad news for me first,” Reggie says, “I can’t stand the waiting.” 

“Bad news for you, you don’t have a chance with Bert. He and his partner are very serious about each other.”

“How do you know?”

“Well, that’s the bad news for me. His partner is Harry’s boss, which means Harry is probably on this train.”

Reggie puts his hand over his heart. “Oh, I’m sorry, Edward, should we leave? This party’s probably going to be a bust, anyway, if I don’t have a chance with Bert.”

“Perhaps we should.” It’s Harry’s boss’ party after all, I don’t want to ruin it for him by being here. Harry, that is. Although I’d hate to ruin it for Harold as well, he seems a nice man. I turn back towards the door, just in time to feel the train start to move.

“Oh no.” We’re trapped now, on a small train, with my ex-boyfriend. Wonderful.

“Reggie!” I turn back around to see that Bert has spotted us, and he’s quickly approaching. “I’m so glad you could make it. It’s so good to have more young blood at a party like this.” He turns to me. “And Edward! I’m so glad to see you and Harry are back together. I heard about your break-up. Nasty business.” 

“Oh, we’re not back together, I’m actually here with my friend Reggie. I’m sorry, when Reggie invited me I didn’t know whose party it was. I can get off at the next station, it’s not-”

“The next station is Brighton, my dear. This is a non-stop party train.” 

“Non-stop party!” Harold exclaims. He comes up behind Bert, and wraps an arm around his shoulder, and kisses him wetly on the cheek. I’ve only met Harold a handful of times, but I’ve never seen him nearly this loose. My guess is that this isn’t his first glass of champagne. “Edward! Harry didn’t tell me you two were back together. How wonderful. You make him so very happy.”

“They’re not, darling, Edward is here as Reggie’s guest.”

“Oh.” Harold looks disappointed. “Well, I suppose that’s alright too.”

“I appreciate that,” I say. “Happy birthday, Harold.”

“Thank you! I’m very old.”

“There’s some champagne at the back bar there,” Bert says, “help yourself.” He wraps his hand around the back of Harold’s neck, holding him close. “The food is scheduled to come out in a half hour, but I think I might send it out sooner.” Then, suddenly, he’s making out with Harold.

Reggie and I manage to sneak around them and make our way to the bar. As we go, it becomes more and more apparent how dire this situation is. I’m not trapped on a train with my ex-boyfriend, I’m trapped on a train with every single one of my ex-boyfriends. Seriously, I’ve slept with about three quarters of the men on this train, and the train is mostly men. There’s Jack, the jazz pianist I had a one night stand with that turned into a prolonged sex weekend last year. There’s Kurt, the older Communist I went down on at a party in 1950. There’s Blenny, sweet, cherub-faced Blenny, who I flirted with for months in 1942 before he finally got the nerve to ask me out. And there, at the end of the train car, dangerously close to the bar, is Harry. 

Harry is wearing a thick, cable-knit jumper and smoking what I have to assume, knowing him, is marijuana. He looks so handsome and masculine and effortlessly  _ cool _ that it makes my heart stop. He’s sitting with his friend Patty and his smallest coworker (Clara, I think?) and they’re laughing at something he said. I’m almost certainly staring, but I can’t tear my eyes away from him. If this is the last time I see him, I want to remember him like this: smiling, beautiful, and happy. 

Harry must feel my eyes on him, because suddenly he looks up, and we’re making eye contact. It’s intense and a little painful, and I don’t know if I would have ever been able to look away if Reggie hadn’t tugged on my elbow and put a champagne flute in my hand. 

“Drink this,” Reggie says, “and come with me.”

Once Reggie peels me away from Harry, the party is actually pretty good. The music is fun, the snacks are delicious, and I have a very pleasant conversation with Blenny, who I haven’t seen in ages, and who has apparently been learning to make his own candy. Reggie has managed a seat next to Kurt the Communist, and is kissing him in a manner that is generally not appropriate on a train. Actually, the whole train has a lot more sexual energy than you would expect from a locomotive. As I look around the train, I see people leaning into each other’s space, touching each other’s hair, giggling furiously at jokes that probably aren’t funny. There’s a woman across from me who is massaging another woman’s bare foot. I’m certainly not a stranger to this kind of party, but I’m not exactly in the mood for it, not when the only man I’d like to kiss is on the other side of the train car right now, probably flirting with a broad-chested fireman or something equally vomit-inducing.

Blenny and I are in the middle of a heated discussion about comic books when Bert approaches me. 

“Edward, would you do me a favor? We’ve just had a spill, and we need some towels. Could you grab some? There’s a linen closet in the next car, first door on the left.”

“Uh, sure, yes, give me a second.” It’s a bit odd that Bert would ask me, of all people, but maybe he doesn’t want to disturb anyone who has already coupled up. I pat Blenny on the knee and make my way into the next car. The first door on the left does lead to a supply closet of sorts, but it’s mostly various bottles of cleaner and sponges. There’s a bucket of dirty rags, and I’m about to grab a couple of the dryer ones when the door opens. I turn around, and there’s Harry, standing in the doorway.

“Oh, sorry,” he says. “I didn’t know you were in here. Bert sent me to look for towels.”

“That’s why I’m here. Guess he didn’t trust me,” I joke. 

“I guess not.” Harry smiles sadly. “Look, while I’m here, I just wanted to tell you-” 

He’s cut off by the sound of the door slamming behind him. Then, we hear what sounds very distinctly like a key turning in the lock. 

Harry whips around. “What? No-” He jiggles the door handle, but it is, of course, locked. “Hello? There are people in here, let us out please!” He bangs on the door a few times.

“I know you’re in there,” comes Bert’s voice from outside the door. “And you’re going to stay in there until you’ve worked this out.” We hear the sound of footsteps walking away, and then the train car door opens and shuts.

*******

“Fuck!” I try the doorknob again. “Goddammit, Bert, I do not need this right now.” I bang on the door a few more times.

“Harry, stop it,” Edward says. “You’re going to hurt yourself.” 

“I just- fuck!” I turn around and slide to the floor, my back against the door. “I’m sorry. I know the last thing you want is to be locked in a room with me.” 

“It’s not exactly how I saw this party going, no.”

I run my hand through my hair. “You might as well sit down, we’re probably going to be here awhile.”

Edward lowers himself to the floor. “I’m getting too old for sitting on the floor.”

“And we’re both getting too old to attend sex parties on trains.”

“It’s really something out there, isn’t it? I’m afraid it’ll be a full blown orgy on the train back.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. I’ve spent the past hour watching Clara and Patty make eyes at each other.”

“I think it’s the champagne. It’s a very sexy drink.”

“Maybe it’s the train. Nothing gets people going like a train ride through the English countryside.”

We both laugh. God, I missed his laugh. It’s just about the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard.  _ This is nice, in it’s own way,  _ I think.  _ Maybe it could work like this, with us as friends.  _ But I know deep down it can’t. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to see Edward without my heart breaking a little. 

“You were saying something, earlier,” Edward says. “Right when you came in. You said you wanted to tell me something?”

“I did. I do. I’m sorry for what I said to you, you know, that day. I didn’t mean it, and it isn’t true. I know you’ve worked hard, and you deserve everything you have. I hate that I said it, and I hate that I hurt you.”

Edward cocks his head. “Thank you. I really appreciate that.”

We sit in silence for a moment.

“What did you do with it? My painting, that is.”

“I’ve still got it, but I haven’t hung it up yet. I can give it back to you, if you’d like.”

I shake my head. “No, I’d like you to have it. You liked it more than anyone else did, anyway.”

“It’s a wonderful piece,” he insists. “Harry, I’m sorry. I should have asked you before I bought it. I said- I said I did it for us, but I didn’t even ask you first. I’m just very used to living my life on my own, I guess. I’ve lived my whole adult life on my own, really. I don’t know how to bring another person in. But I want to. Wanted to, I mean.” He looks away, clearly embarrassed. I desperately want to reach out and stroke his cheek, wipe away the sad look from his face. But I don’t.

“It’s alright,” I say instead, “I forgive you, really. I think the reason I was so upset was because I thought it meant nobody but you would ever respect me as an artist, you know? That nobody else would want to buy my paintings. It made me feel a bit hopeless.”

“Oh Harry, you’re going to sell a million paintings in your life.”

“I know.”

“Cheeky.”

I laugh. “No, I just mean- I’m trying to be better about it. About my self-confidence, about, I don’t know, feeling worthy.”

Edward frowns. “Harry, you are so very, very, worthy. I don’t know how you don’t see it. You’re worth so much to me.” He takes a deep breath. “I miss you. I miss you so much.”

“Me too.” I can feel tears starting to form, which is a little bit embarrassing. 

Edward crawls forward until he’s sitting next to me. “I’ve been awful without you. My life is a mess. I feel like I can’t do anything but miss you.”

I nod frantically. “Me too. You’re all I think about, Edward. I barely leave my room. Today was the first time I’ve shaved in weeks.”

Edward lets out a laugh that’s almost a sob. “I bet you look great with facial hair.”

I shake my head. “I really don’t.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I think a mustache would look smart on you.” He reaches up and brushes my upper lip. I catch his hand in mine. There’s a tense pause, and then he leans forward and kisses me.

It’s a sweet kiss, and fairly chaste, but it drives me a little bit crazy anyway. I cup his cheek in my hand so when he finally pulls away, I can keep him close.

“I get angry sometimes,” I tell him. “You should know that, if we try this again.”

He puts his hand on my knee. “You’re allowed to be angry. But you aren’t allowed to be mean, and you certainly aren’t allowed to leave anymore.”

“I won’t and I couldn’t,” I promise. “And you have to bring me in. You have to make decisions with me, not for me.”

“I can do that.”

I rub my thumb along his cheekbone. “Good. Because I love you, Edward. I’m in love with you. I want us to work.”

Edward smiles dopily and leans into my hand. “I love you too,” he says, then he kisses me again.

“Gentlemen, have you made up yet?” Bert calls as he throws open the door. His eyes widen, and I can’t blame him. I’m sure we’re quite a sight. Edward’s got me flat on my back, hands pinned above my head, while he straddles me. My hair is a mess and I honestly have no idea where Edward’s shirt and sweater vest have gone. “I see,” Bert says. “We arrive in Brighton in about a quarter of an hour. I’ll see you then.” Then he shuts the door, and Edward and I go right back to what we were doing.

Brighton, it turns out, is a lovely little seaside town. “It’s better during the day,” Edward tells me, but I don’t really care. I think it’s beautiful, and I think he’s beautiful. Bert has rented out a dancehall for us, with a corny sort of swing band, and everyone is dancing. I’ve been to places like this a couple times in New York, where men dance with men and women dance with women, but this is bigger, and cleaner, and the company is much better. It’s sweet to see Bert and Harold dance together: Harold has his head on Bert’s shoulder, and Bert’s whispering something in his ear. Meanwhile, Clara and Patty are dancing together, and Clara’s got her hands up the back of Patty’s sweater.

“May I have this dance?” Edward asks me. 

“You may.” Edward takes my hand and leads me to the dance floor. I’ve got about four inches on Edward, but he still insists on leading, which is so very him. 

“I knew you’d be a good dancer,” he tells me. 

“I’m really not. I’m aggressively average at it.”

“Hmm, then why am I having such a good time?”

“Because you’ve had three glasses of champagne, and your hand is on my ass.”

“You might be onto something, Harry.”

We dance in silence for a while, just enjoying each other’s company.

“You know,” Edward says, “we don’t have to take the train back tonight. We could get a hotel here for the night.”

“I hope you don’t think I’m going to put out, Edward. I’m not that kind of girl.”

“Harry, you already  _ have  _ put out today.”

“Alright, maybe I am that kind of girl. In that case, let’s do it.” 

Edward grins. He lifts his arm and twirls me, which makes me laugh. He pulls me close and kisses me.

“You two are hopeless,” Reggie complains. He’s dancing with a man in a dark blue tea dress. “Take that mushy stuff somewhere else.”

“You’re just jealous of us,” Edward says.

“I think I prefer you two broken up and unhappy,” Reggie says, but I’m not listening. I’ve got Edward Button in my arms, and he’s my whole entire world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to Lesbians with foot fetishes.


	8. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edward and Harry make plans for the future

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, we are at the end! 
> 
> This chapter takes place a few months in the future, in February, 1953

“I think,” Whitey says, “it might be time for us to call it a night.” 

“Oh, not just yet,” Sholto wheedles. “I still have more things to say about number theory.” He runs his thumb over Whitey’s collar and kisses his temple.

I suppose I should back up and set the scene. Sholto and Whitey are currently sitting on Edward’s couch, because Edward has invited the three of us over for a couple’s poker night. Sholto and Whitey, in my opinion, make a very cute couple. Edward’s still being a little odd about the whole thing, but he’s very happy for them, in his own way. 

(“I’ve slept with them both,” he told me, “and I think they’re probably quite sexually compatible.” “I didn’t need to know that, Edward.” “Didn’t you?”)

Anyway, those two are completely besotted with each other. Their relationship had something of a rocky start, which was sort of Edward’s fault, but that’s an entirely different story than the one I’m trying to tell you so I’ll leave it for now. 

“Harry and Edward don’t care about number theory, dearest,” Whitey says, pushing some hair out of Sholto’s eyes.

“We really don’t,” Edward says.

“Come on, let’s get you home.” Whitey wraps an arm around Sholto and lifts him from the couch. Sholto holds onto Whitey’s neck for balance. 

“Sorry Charlie, I’ve had a bit too much to drink,” Sholto says, but he winks at me. Whitey grunts. They make their way to the door, almost slipping once when Sholto tries to grab Whitey’s bottom. 

“Would you like me to hail you a cab?” Edward asks. Sholto is doing his best to kiss Whitey’s neck, preventing them both from getting through the door.

“I think that might be best,” Whitey says. He looks like he’s going to push Sholto off him, but instead he pushes Sholto against the wall and kisses him.

Edward turns around to give me a despairing look before going through the door, presumably to call a cab. I smile fondly. It’s a bit uncomfortable to be left alone with the two of them, but of course I’ll never complain about watching two men kiss, especially two men as good looking as Sholto and Whitey. Besides, it’s sort of fascinating to see the two of them at work. Sholto manages to be just as loud with Whitey’s mouth attached to his own, which is impressive in its own way.

“I’ve got you a cab,” Edward says, poking his head back into the apartment, “so you two better cool your jets.”

After we get Whitey and Sholto into their cab, I stick around to help Edward clean up. I do this partially out of kindness, and partially so that when we’re done, Edward and I can make out a bit on his couch. Edward’s got a perfect couch for fooling around; it’s plenty big enough, and it’s just the right amount of firm. I often wonder if he picked it out for this reason. 

We’ve been kissing on said couch for a solid ten minutes when Edward pushes me away gently. 

“Can you spend the night?” he asks.

“Mm, I wish.” I lean down to kiss his neck. I’m on top of Edward, and I’ve got one hand under his sweater, feeling up his chest. The last thing I want to think about is the fact that I have to go home eventually.

“I’m serious, Harry. My bed is so cold without you,” he pouts, fisting his hands in the front of my undershirt.

“Neddy, I wish I could, but I spent the night last night. I really think Mildred’s starting to get suspicious.”

“Then move in with me.”

“What?” 

“I’m serious.” Edward sits up, brushing his hair back into place. “Move in with me. Then we can spend the night every night.”

“Edward, I can’t afford to split the mortgage on this place. I can barely afford my rent as it is.” I rub my hand over his knee.

“You wouldn’t have to pay the mortgage. No offense, Harry, but I’m not asking you to move in because I need your help with the bills.” Edward puts his hand over mine. “Look, sweetheart, I’ve been thinking about this, and I think it’s the perfect solution. You could quit working, focus on your painting. I can even pay for your studio space, if you’d like. You deserve to be able to do what you love. And hopefully,” he squeezes my hand, “I’m one of the things you love.”

It’s a cheeky thing to say, but I can tell by the look on Edward’s face that he’s a little scared. I look away.

“Of course I love you, Edward. It’s just-” I’m not exactly sure what to say here. It’s a big thing to ask. We haven’t actually been together that long, I only met him about five months ago. And my mother warned my sisters about moving in with a man before he put on a ring on their finger. But then again, Edward and I have done plenty of things my mother wouldn’t approve of my sisters doing without a ring. And it’s not like Edward  _ can  _ give me a ring. “I’m not sure I can accept that kind of generosity,” I say finally.

“But you can,” Edward insists. “What’s the point of having a wealthy doctor boyfriend if you don’t let him pay for things?”

“Ah, so I’m to be a kept man.”

“Maybe,” Edward concedes, “but can you blame me for wanting to keep you?”

I smile. Good Lord, he’s charming. I really am unbelievably lucky that I’m the only one he wants to charm.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay. I’ll move in with you.”

“Oh, Harry.” He fists his hand in my hair and pulls me in for another kiss.

“I love you so much,” I tell him.

“God, I love you too.” He grips the front of my undershirt. “So will you spend the night?”

I laugh. “Edward, I don’t have any clean underwear.”

He shrugs. “Turn them inside out.”

“I’m about to move in with you. Is that not enough?” 

“Harry, darling, don’t you get it? I’ll never have enough of you.”


End file.
